


Amor Perros

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-07-10
Updated: 2001-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-20 09:24:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11332932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Amor Perros

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Amor Perros by Lady Jaguar

You asked for it; you got it. :) This'll have to hold you for another two months, I think.

TITLE: Amor Perros  
BY: Lady Jaguar  
DISTRIBUTION:  
RATING: R  
SPOILERS: post "Tango de los Pistoleros"  
SUMMARY: F/B/L/O  
NOTA BENE: Strange Spots Universe. The title is Spanish for "Dogs' love"; Mexican slang for "Savage love".  
DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the Gunmen, not me. They'd hang me if they caught me writing this stuff.   
BETA: None. Blame everything on me.  
FEEDBACK: Encourages bad habits. 

* * *

I step into our hotel room, reeking of smoke, sex, and smug satisfaction. It has been years since I made love to a woman; since I thrust myself into the slick warmth of a woman's body, and I am high on the feeling; high on the memory. Tonight, we made love, AnaMaria and I. We have made love every night and every afternoon since I walked into her laundry. 

Byers looks up as I enter, his smile giving away nothing about his feelings. "How did it go?"

By way of answer, I flop on the bed, grinning at the ceiling. "Ayyyyiiiiieeeee... I think I'm going to die." 

"A happy death." His chuckle is soft and doesn't sound at all forced. I glance across the room at him. His back is toward me as he carefully packs his suitcase; the broad dark expanse of his suit coat revealing nothing. I glance toward the bathroom.

"Where's Langly?"

"In the other room. With Jimmy and Kimmy. A game of some kind."

I hear it now; the short choppy sentences that betray his pain. Guilt stabs me and I rise from the bed, put a hand on his shoulder. "John...?"

"We'll be fine," he says, without looking up. "Langly's avoiding thinking about this right now. We're both happy for you, really. It's a chance..."

The silence fills in the rest -- a chance for a normal heterosexual relationship. A chance that none of us thought we would ever have as we drifted into our ... whatever we have become. Sometimes I think our relationship is a Gordian Knot more than anything else; too complex to undo except by cutting through pieces of all of us at once. And my decision to stay in Little Havana with LaHabanera is a cruel cut for us all.

"Hey, we always wanted a branch office," I joke. "Today, Miami --tomorrow, Uzbekistan." The words fall flat. The shoulder underneath my hand is hard and tense and Byers will not turn to face me. I turn away from him, giving him space to grieve. I am grieving, too. Why does taking the right path feel so wrong?

"I'm gonna take a shower and then finish packing," I announce, stripping off my gloves and unbuttoning my vest. Leather in Miami is a madness, but certain things are expected of El Lobo. Dying of heat exhaustion might bcome one of the traits of El Lobo, unless I can convince myself to wear something other than leather. Black leather is a part of what made the legendary El Lobo; a trace of the old machismo from the days when the Pack and I policed the barrio. We were warriors then without a clue of what justice was and our black leather and black berets made us look much taller and much more dangerous. In an era when non-whites were beaten for trying to vote, few white men tried to pick on anyone that the Pack guarded. 

And no one, man or woman, tried to cross La Habanera more than once. I look down at my chest, at the red stripes her fingernails left after our argument today. No, you don't cross my little Pepper more than once.

I hunt in John's shaving kit for the aloe vera gel and use it to treat the red marks, soothing it over the fresh scratches and the bruise from her kick during our first discussion. Living with AnaMaria always was an exciting situation. I step under the shower, humming to myself, anticipating.

####

John isn't in the room when I finish with my shower, and I hesitate for a moment over packing. It would be easier just to throw everything into my suitcase and duffel bag and vanish from the room without saying goodbye. I'm not sure I can look into Ringo's eyes and say that final goodbye -- and yet, it's pretty cowardly to walk out on a close relationship without some sort of closure.

I finally settle for writing a note to each of them, telling myself I will email them and do... do something. I don't know what. It's so hard to say what I feel, because I'm not really sure what it is that I feel. Underneath the elation of finding the right woman, there's a sort of horrible hollow sensation as though a part of me is off somewhere, crying. But El Lobo doesn't cry. It's not macho. I shoulder my duffel bag and collect my suitcase and head downstairs to flag down a cab.

AnaMaria lives in a fairly good section of what used to be the barrio -- and probably still is the barrio, though such old segregated notions are supposed to have been shelved twenty years ago. There's a cultural and economic difference between the Latinos and the Anglos here in Miami. It blurs a little in the suburbs, where white collar workers buy little cloned houses and live clumped in monotonous housing developments, but here in the heart of Little Havana, the differences stand out. The working poor live here, in conditions as unpromising as our own headquarters. After thirty years of work and effort, niether La Habanera nor I have ever managed to make our dreams come true. It reminds me of that old song by somebody or another about the cab driver and the rich woman -- she didn't go on to be a famous dancer and movie star, and sometimes I think I could make more money and more of an impact driving a cab than I can as a publisher. 

My gloomy musings end when I knock on AnaMaria's door and am greeted by an armful of enthusiastic redhead. She steals my breath with her kisses, dragging me inside her small apartment, clawing at my belt with her long fingernails. I strip the dress from her shoulders and her skin feels like sun-warmed satin to my touch. She tastes salty sweet, and I'm not sure how we can be so hungry for each other after just a few hours rest. Our clothes don't make it as far as the bedroom.

She's slick with sweat as I slide down her naked body, suckling at the pointed brown nipples that rise above her firm breasts, lapping my tongue at the hollow of her navel. I taste faint traces of our early lovemaking on her skin, and that arouses me more. I taste her womanhood, flicking my tongue in and out of her secret places till I taste and feel the wetness of her arousal. Then, with a swift move, I slide forward and cover her, driving into her wet heat until there is nothing in my universe but the feel of her body wrapped around me and our heat and passion. I fill her with my seed, pumping myself into her willing body. We pull apart, panting, and she snuggles up to me in the curve of my arm, tracing little circles in the hair on my chest.

I stare at the ceiling, thinking I should be feeling triumphant and wondering why there's this little echo of pain inside me. The dull tiles of the ceiling remind me of the cheezy hotel where we're staying -- where I was staying. Where John and Ringo are staying. I wonder if they've found the notes yet. Maybe I should email them from a cybercafe. There's bound to be one around here.

AnaMaria watches me. "You look serious," she says after awhile. "What are you thinking?"

"Thinking about my amigos. Wondering what they're doing," I answer. 

Her lips twist. "Them? Not worth thinking about. Think about me." She bites at my earlobe.

I sigh and cuddle her closer, and say nothing. It's a bad move. She sits up, looking indignant.

 

The Lone Slasher: http://www.slashaholics.org/lgm/

"Look. You don't ..." she says something I don't understand. I frown. "You don't need them," she explains more slowly. Words of one syllable for the clueless gringo, I think to myself. "They are not your lovers. Me, I am your lover."

Ooohboy. Let's not go there, sweetheart. There's a whole big can of worms you don't want to find out about. 

"Drop it," I answer, sitting up. I think I need to get away from this conversation. I reach for my underwear. "I think I'm going to go get some cigarettes." I haven't smoked in over 25 years, but I'm suddenly getting the urge for coffin nails. She reaches for my arm.

"They are NOT your lovers," she insists, her eyes glittering.

"The blonde guy. He's such a ...." she uses a word I've never heard before, but I'm pretty sure from the context that it's a pretty nasty slur.

"Don't say that about my friend," I snap at her. My still-rusty Spanish isn't good enough to frame a more complex argument. I shuck on my pants, thrust my arms into my shirt, buttoning it carelessly.

"Did you like sex with pretty boys? Does he sell himself on the corners for you?" she sneers.

"Shut UPt!" Anger isn't helping my verbal skills at all or my coordination at tying my shoelaces.

"Oooh. You couldn't find any woman who was woman enough for you, so he ..." I can't translate the slang, but her meaning is clear as she half-turns away from me and waggles her buttocks at me. With a growl, I push off the bed and grab my coat and hat.

"You're not leaving!" she says -- not a plea, but a challenge.

"Hell, yes. I'm going for cigarettes. And if I want to go for cigarettes, I'll go for fucking cigarettes! And you, woman, have nothing to say about it!" We're almost nose-to-nose now. Machismo versus machisma; Mars versus Venus. She bares her teeth in an expression that's half-grin and half-snarl.

"Cigarettes?? Ha! You haven't smoked in thirty years! You told me so yourself! You're sneaking off to call your whore friend, aren't you? What's the matter, El Lobo? I'm too much woman for you? We'll change your name to El PuppyDog."

"It is NONE of your business where I'm going, woman!" Now there's a well-practiced phrase and one I can recite in my sleep. I sound like a fucking Neanderthal.

"You think you can treat me like that?" She swings her hand at me, raking her ring across my cheek. "*THAT* for your whore friend!" she hisses. 

 I snarl and grab her wrist, yanking at her arm. "Don't DO that!" 

"YOU DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO, YOU WEAK LITTLE WORM!!!" she screams and slaps me with her other hand.

Rage burns like acid in my stomach. "FUCK YOU!" I roar and shove her away. She pulls back, panting, swearing, fingers curved into hooked claws, lunges at me again. I push her back and she spits at me and hooks those blood-red nails at my face. I barely get my arms up in time.

"I will BREAK that freak whore of yours!" she screams, diving for the kitchen. I grab her arm, yanking her away from the knife drawer. She swings at me again and this time my fist comes up, aimed at her face. She pauses, panting.

"Do it!!!" she hisses at me. "Show me what a man you are!"

It's an old taunt; the one she used when we were young and I would do anything to defend my manly image. But anger doesn't burn hot in this decade of life-- it's something cold and a bit more deadly than the rage of youth. I shove my fisted hands into my coat pockets to keep from punching her.

Something touches my knuckles. I pull it out, turning it over in my hands, focusing on it to calm the anger surging through my system. It's the bottle of aloe vera gel from John's shaving kit. I must have absentmindedly pocketed it when I was packing up. 

I stare at it for a moment, feeling oddly lost and lonely, tuning out AnaMaria's shrieks and venom. It's a mistake, because I'm jarred again as she takes another swing at my face. My glasses go flying and I finally lose my last shred of self-control and slap her --hard. 

She tumbles back onto the bed and her mood changes dramatically. 

"How could you do such a thing?" she whimpers, her hand cradling her cheek. "El Lobo, I am your woman. You wouldn't beat me, would you? You wouldn't leave me, would you? You know I don't mean it. You know I am scared I will lose you." Her eyes are large and soft and glitter with tears. Her nipples are hard little peaks, stiff with desire. We're locked in a game of hurt-and-comfort; the game that ends with my forgiving her and a session of wild, passionate sex fueled by hormones and adrenaline surges. 

I hurt you, you hurt me, we're a dysfunctional family... the words march through my head. Disgusted, I turn my back without answering her and locate my glasses. The mirror shows another red mark on my cheek. I open the bottle of gel and smooth it on. The scent reminds me of John and Ringo.

"Honey, I didn't mean it," she whimpers. "I was jealous."

It's the words of her decades-old mating call. "Honey, I'm sorry" means that the fight is over and now I am to comfort her.

I feel empty and nauseous and manipulated. I stare at the tube of aloe gel, tracing the lettering with a finger. Home. I want to go home to the two people who matter most to me. I don't need cigarettes. Fuck the heterosexual life. I need my lovers. 

No matter how bad things got with the three of us, we never played torture-comfort games. But with AnaMaria, there's a long history of this type of loving. Even thirty years agg, she needed the excitement of a fight to get fully aroused. Tonight, she craved that argument like a smoker craves another cigarette. If I hadn't snapped at her remark, she'd have found something else to sneer at until I broke down and roared at her. Breakup-to-makeup is the only sex game in town for La Habanera and her lover.

Well, guess what, baby. Mel ain't playing this game any longer.

I take a deep breath, turn, and hand the bottle to her. "I'm sorry I hurt you," I say mildly, and she gapes in astonishment. "I'm leaving now. I need to sleep before the quys and I drive to Virginia tomorrow." I pick up my duffel bag and suitcase . Her eyes are wide with shock. "Adios," I say as I close the door behind me.

Her screams of rage can be heard clear out into the streets. I take the black fedora from my duffel bag and send it skimming across the road, to land on the sidewalk beyond. 

El Lobo is dead. Long live El Lobo.

#########

The only ones who don't seem surprised to find me at the van in the morning are Kimmy (who hasn't been hit by the clue bus yet) and Jimmy. Before I can protest, he bounds over and sweeps me into a hug and mumbles into my ear, "I just KNEW you'd be back." 

"Jimmy, we don't do hugs," I growl at him, more out of habit than anything else. He backs off, grinning, and tosses his gear into the van as Ringo and John arrive. I answer their unspoken questions with a brief lie about having had an early breakfast. I can see Byers' shoulders ease and Langly's tightly wary expression relax as I start talking about Headquarters and the next issue and formats and layouts. Yeah, buddy, I'm back. This may be the craziest, most un-sanctioned relationship on the face of the planet, but it's a lot saner than some of the others I've been in. Melvin's home to stay.

Kimmy makes some sort of wise-ass comment about hot times and I give him an equally stupid and testosterone-laden retort. I swipe the keys from Byer's hand, and ease myself into the drivers' seat. At one time I aspired to Hugh Hefner's throne -- the girls, the print empire, the works. But today, I'm looking forward to being Melvin Frohike and seeing Miami in the rearview mirror. 

############### end ##########

(maybe I shoulda put a warning there about "potty mouth", too.)

The Lone Slasher: http://www.slashaholics.org/lgm/

  
Archived: July 04, 2001 


End file.
